


fatigue.

by burrfication



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 06:17:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11800152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burrfication/pseuds/burrfication
Summary: Aaron Burr is tired.All he wants is to rest, but there's some things you can't take time off from. When a fight with Alexander goes too far, he contemplates his options.





	fatigue.

**Author's Note:**

> Serious, severe warning for suicidal thoughts, ideation and planning.
> 
> This is not a happy fic, folks. If you struggle with thoughts of suicide and self-harm, I strongly advise you avoid it. If you are struggling, please contact your local suicide and crisis chat centers, whether by the phone or through online chat services.

By the time Alexander says it, it’s actually a relief. 

He’d been fighting for so long. Exhaustion was no longer a thing he felt, it was a thing he was: drained, emptied, bled of all passions and hope and faith. Each trivial task took monumental effort. Getting out of bed was as hard as completing a marathon; talking to a friend was as daunting as his first job interview. Despite formerly being fastidious, his personal space grew steadily less and less tidy, diving from picture perfect to ordered chaos to filth. 

Burr knew perfectly well he had good things in his life. That wasn’t the problem, hadn’t ever been the problem. Call him selfish (which he did, so, so often) but the good wasn’t enough. It didn’t outweigh the bad. It didn’t even balance. Even with all the good things in his life, he had no breathing space to rest and recover from the constant barrage of negatives. Even the most minor inconvenience drained him, and the never-ending flood of such problems was enough to make him want to retreat under the covers and just have everything stop.

It wasn’t like Burr hadn’t tried to look on the bright side. He’d done all the right things. He had hobbies; he did yoga and kept a journal and saw a psychologist. He knew he had a tendency to focus on the negative, so he held himself back. He talked less and smiled more. He got a promotion, then another. He tried to be proud of it. 

There are moments he thinks he’s healed. The clouds roll back and his mind clears long enough for him to truly enjoy the small things in life: the feel of the sun on his skin, the sounds of birds singing, the press of Alexander’s lips against his own. He learns to hate those moments. No matter how tightly or greedily he grasps, they slip away. The warmth of the sun goes cool. He tunes out the sound of birds and his lips turn numb no matter how sweetly Alexander sighs against him. The joy and content he felt becomes a distant memory, not only bitter for having been lost but a cold, mocking reminder that the despair he feels is not because the world is devoid of joy or hope.

It’s because of him.

He knows if he said as much aloud he would get refuted, but that does nothing to change the conviction in his heart that this burden is his and his alone. When the urge to reach out rises, he crushes it without mercy. He may be weak, but he would not let his poison infect anyone else. On the rare occasion anyone noticed something was wrong, Burr did the only thing he could do. He smiled. He kept smiling until his cheeks hurt and his face felt frozen in a weak mockery of emotion, but no one ever questioned his expression. There is a special kind of torture, Burr thinks, in having to smile for the world while the person you were rotted and died.

Maybe Alexander could see through it. Maybe he realized Burr’s reluctance to voice opinions was not born of hesitation or impartiality but apathy. Maybe he could tell when Burr’s skin turned numb and insensitive under his scorching hot touch. Whatever the last straw was, Burr didn’t want to know. All he cared about was finally being free of the last thing tying him down.

“Damn it, Aaron, Jefferson was tearing into me back there and you said nothing. Do you even care? Did you even fucking notice? Who am I kidding, you probably wouldn’t even notice if I died. You’re so damn quiet these days I wouldn’t notice if you did.”

Burr doesn’t let himself dwell on the look on Alexander’s face after he’d said it. He doesn’t want to know that Alexander regrets it. He lets himself think instead about the frustration and rage in his voice. It’s easy to tell himself Alexander hates him when he does nothing to stop Burr from leaving their apartment. He turns his phone off as he walks down the street and round the corner. He’s not sure what would be worse: Alexander trying to contact him to apologize, or for his phone to sit leaden and silent in his pocket all night. 

An hour later he’s in a bar. He has vague memories of hopping on the subway, although he can’t remember for how long or even in which direction he went. The bar itself is dark and grimy, but Burr has to admit the beer isn’t bad. All in all, it’s not a bad place to consider his options. A part of him rebels, but Burr ignores it. He wants to die. Since the universe hasn’t been kind enough to facilitate his desires, he might as well take matters into his own hands. After all, Alexander was always telling him you get nothing if you wait for it. 

It’s a difficult topic to consider, even so. He has pills, back home, but Alexander’s at home, too. Burr’s not sure he can handle that. For each and every option he can think of, there’s an excuse holding him back: too likely to fail, too public, too close to home. It’s not even that he wants to kill himself, he thinks morosely. He just wants to be dead. 

It’s dark when he eventually stumbles out onto the street, his head spinning. He blinks a couple of times before he groans. It’s a familiar street, one he’s been down a thousand times. He shuffles away quickly, hoping against hope to make his exit before anyone recognizes him. It’s a futile hope. He barely makes it a block before he hears someone say:

“Is that Aaron? Is - Jesus Christ, Thomas, I think it is. Aaron?”

He ducks his head when he hears his name, hunches his shoulders and tries to lose himself in a crowd of passing revelers. A hand wraps around his elbow and he flinches. He tugged and pulled against the firm grasp, his eyes fixed on the ground, but he may as well have tried to fly for all the good it did him. His head spun. Burr closed his eyes, and when he opened them he had to face the fact that he’d been caught. James spoke first, but it was Thomas who spoke the loudest.

“Are you okay? We don’t know what happened, but it’s been hours, and - “

“Your idiot boyfriend has been crying, Aaron, crying on my actual shoulder. I don’t know what happened, but I don’t know that I want to know what could lead to that.”

“‘M sorry,” Burr mumbled, letting himself be shepherded down the street. “Didn’t mean to worry anyone. Didn’t think he’d care.”

“Of course he cares. Heaven knows the man is a self-centered, egocentric pain in the ass, but he’s clearly in love with you.”

Burr didn’t know what to say to that, so he nodded silently. Thomas’ continued to talk as he pushed Burr into the back of his car, and Burr could only hope his occasional wordless hum was taken as agreement. 

The hand shaking him awake is an unpleasant surprise. Burr hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep. He kept his eyes trained on the ground as he stepped out the car and followed James up the steps to the lavish apartment he and Thomas shared. He feels guilty even stepping through the door. There’s a warm golden light spilling from inside, and he knows it will be warm and toasty indoors despite the bitter cold outside. Every instinct Burr has screams at him to run. It’s too nice, too comfortable: it’s not meant for him.

He’s tackled into a hug as soon as the door opens. It winds him, sends him stumbling back a couple of paces, but that doesn’t seem to deter Lafayette. Before Burr could say anything, Lafayette was pulling him inside. “Come in, before you freeze! You must tell us what is wrong. I was not able to get any sense out of Alexander before he went looking for you: all he would say was that John and I must wait here.”

Burr’s heart sank. John. If anyone would know what Burr had been planning, it would be him. He studiously avoids eye contact when they pass in the hall, hoping his guilt will stay hidden if he hides his face. 

Unable to face the others, he asked Thomas if he can use the shower. There’s a brief whirlwind of activity as arrangements are made. It’s only when he’s standing under the scalding hot water that the tears come. It starts with a sob bubbling up inside his chest; the next things Burr knows, he’s doubled over under the water and gasping for breath. His fingers curled tight around a support bar installed to help James when he was sick, and it’s a few minutes before he manages to peel his fingers away one by one. 

In addition to a large fluffy towel, he’s been left with some old clothes belonging to James. He’s keenly aware of how the soft material scrapes against his skin as he pulls the clothes on. Despite being chronically ill and having the appetite of a mouse, James is still a little larger than Burr, and the clothes hang off his body. 

He can hear voices in the kitchen when he steps out of the bathroom. Each step towards the crowd makes his heart twist with anxiety. It’s a marathon all of its own. Step forward; feel the thick plush of the carpet beneath his bare feet; gather his will once more, then one more step. The final step puts his feet not on carpet, but smooth hard wood.

The voices stop.

Burr forces himself to look up at the crowd. There were six of them, gathered around the table: Thomas and James on one side, with Lafayette and John opposite them. Hercules Mulligan had appeared, taking the seat beside Lafayette. And at the head of the table, there was Alexander. A blanket had been wrapped around his shoulders, and he held a mug of tea (chamomile, knowing Thomas) with both hands.

Neither of them said a word as Alexander stood and crossed the kitchen. For a moment they stood facing each other, unsure of what the other wanted. Burr wasn’t sure who moved first, but all at once they were bound up in a tight embrace. They stood like that for God knew how long, before Burr yawned widely. Despite Alexander’s protests that they could make it home, Thomas insisted they take the guest room. 

(Another burden, one part of Burr’s brain supplied, but he was too tired to pay any notice to it).

Burr woke hours late to the sound of Alexander snoring softly by his side. For a long time, he lay still and stared at the ceiling, trying to reconcile with the feeling that he didn’t quite fit inside his own skin. It took nearly an hour for him to realize he and Alexander weren’t alone. He turned his head to the side. 

John Laurens had pulled a chair over to the side of the bed and sat, watching them.

It should have been creepy. Burr knew perfectly well he should have been confused, unnerved, intimidated even. Instead he just sighed and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

“How did you know?”

“You mean apart from Alex being half convinced you were already dead?”

The words were soft in the darkness, but Burr still flinched. So Alexander knew, too. He wondered who else Alexander had told. His stomach churned unpleasantly as he considered the possibility they all knew his failure. He’d never wanted to upset any of them.

“Of course you upset us, you dumbass. You should’ve said something if it was this bad.”

“Like you did?”

It’s a low blow, and Burr knows it. Laurens stares him down unblinking and pulls down the scarf wound tight around his neck, revealing a horrible, twisted scar. “You think I never regret this didn’t work? But I’m here. You’re here. And more importantly, Alex is here. If you won’t get help for yourself, do it for him.”

“I tried,” Burr insisted. He’s horrified to realize there are tears in his eyes. His voice whines and grates as he speaks despite his attempts to keep his tone level and cool. “God damn it, don’t you think I tried? I saw a psych, I did what they said, and it didn’t help. I don’t want to keep going, and Alexander said he wouldn’t care, so - “

The slap surprises him. It’s a shock, but there’s something about the sting that feels good, and he almost asks Laurens to do it again. Laurens is speaking before he can, though, and it quickly became clear he wasn’t going to be doing Burr any favours.

“You don’t get to give up. I don’t care what Alex said when you two fought, you know damn well he’d still care if something happened to you. If you’d pulled it off, he’d be mourning you for the rest of his life - and believe me, failing to do it properly is no easier. You’re stuck with him no matter what you do. He loves you, your friends love you, and there is nothing you can do to drive them away. Nothing, Aaron.”

There was nothing Burr could say to that, so he nodded silently. It took a few long moments of Laurens staring at him for Burr to realize that wasn’t going to cut it. He thought for a few moments before he decided to try and appease him.

“I’ll try harder. For Alexander.”

That seemed to be what Laurens had been waiting for. He nodded curtly and got to his feet. Burr watched as he crossed the room and carefully shut the door behind him. Burr let out a long exhale. The room was silent except for Alexander snoring. For a moment, Burr watched him, illuminated by the dim light of the bedside alarm clock. Very slowly, Burr lay down and curled up against Alexander’s chest. Alexander shifted in his sleep, hugging Burr closer. All Burr knew was Alexander: the thump of his heart, the warmth of his skin, the sweet smell of his favourite soap. It was a rare, pure moment of happiness untainted by bitterness and fear.

At least for the moment, Burr was happy to be alive.


End file.
